Monday is always a lazy day for me. While the rest of the student body trudges off to another week of class, I celebrate the final installment of my four-day weekend with a big mug of piping hot coffee, a stolen copy of The New York Times crossword (thanks Apartment 202, I owe ya one) and an incredibly comfortable living room couch. This week was different though, as my Monday pleasure cruise veered off course and ended up in a sweaty cardio room. It's all Oprah's fault.
Initially, this Monday was like any other. By the afternoon, I'd moved on from the crossword and coffee to cookies and milk. With about 500 pages of reading for my Vietnam War class awaiting me on my desk, I did what any responsible scholar in my position would do. I turned on Oprah.
In all honesty, I rarely watch the show. As an up-and-coming student journalist, I find the overlord of all media terribly intimidating. Also, I don't like crying—by me or anyone in my vicinity. But Monday, she caught me. I flipped on the television, and there she was. She stared me right in the face and told me it was the moment I'd been waiting one whole year for.
My mind raced. I thought back to Nov. 6, 2005. What had happened? To the best of my knowledge, there was nothing of any particular importance, but who was I to argue with Oprah? Firmly in her grasp, Oprah dropped the bomb directly on my head.
""Today, Kirstie Alley reveals her new body... IN A BIKINI!""
Ah yes, how rude of me to forget. The ensuing clips showed the former star of ""Fat Actress"" at her fattest. In her interview she talked about the lifestyle that made her that size. It sounded extremely familiar.
As I came to a horrifying realization, I dropped my chocolate chip cookie and sat up on the couch. Kirstie Alley's old lifestyle and my Monday routine were dead ringers. This required immediate action.
I leapt off the couch and went in search of some decent exercise gear—movement clothes, if you will. For lack of better options, I ended up in a pair of dirty pajama shorts and a light blue Oxford University T-shirt instead. Then I set off for the Southeast Recreational Facility. It was time to get fit.
Upon arrival, I made my way to the cardio room. This was made difficult by the fact that I'd never been there before. The surprising lack of signage didn't help either. Once I'd found my destination, I was a little taken back with what I saw. The room was packed. There wasn't a free machine in sight. I attribute this entirely to Oprah.
After a short wait, a bike finally opened up. I hopped on and set about erasing the effects of my Monday gluttony. To the tunes of local hit music station Z104's ""Afternoon Workout"" lineup, I juiced it hard for about 35 minutes before would-be-exercisers started eyeing up my ride. Already five minutes over the allowed usage time, I decided to call it a night.
Before I left, I checked the bike's somewhat complicated console to see what I'd accomplished. I recorded my stats—30 minutes, 8.02 miles and 237 calories—and made my way home.
As soon as I walked in the door, I went straight to the garbage can and fished out the cookie wrapper from my afternoon snack. Then, for the first time ever, I looked at the nutritional facts. The serving size was one cookie and each had 110 calories. I'd eaten four. My heart sank. I'd only made it halfway. I blame Oprah.
